Two Months in the Isolation Ward
by hypotensedaemon
Summary: In the end, someone must always tend to the things that were left behind. Ginoza finally tends to himself. Akane tends to his plants, among other things.
1. Chapter 1

**Week One**

A surge of pain shot down his arm, and he gasped and clutched at his shoulder, his eyes shooting open. Slowly, the white room came into focus through the haze. His arm throbbed unbearably to each beat of his pulse, the sensation of his muscles and tendons ripping all along the bone still seared into his mind. But when he gripped at his arm, there was only a bandaged-up shoulder where it used to be. He gritted his teeth, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop the pain but wait for it to subside on its own. So he laid there, bathed in sweat, panting away the dredges of the nightmare. Except it wasn't a nightmare, as he kept reminding himself. It was pure memory, unadulterated by the drugs they constantly pumped into his system. He blinked slowly and concentrated on controlling his breathing. Over the last few days, he'd adapted a refined technique for calming himself down.

His first few days in the isolation ward were chaotic, terrifying, and he could only collect a few coherent memories from them. He remembered waking up for the first time to find himself lying on a bed in a white padded room, his shoulder aching and wrapped tightly in layers of bandages, his left arm gone. Through the haze of heavy pain medication, he tried to recollect what had happened. Then it all came back to him in a rush of images and sounds and sensations—a dark warehouse, his arm crushed beneath an unbearable weight, an explosion, his dad, his _dad_ , tearing his arm out from underneath the wreckage, his tendons snapping, his dad's face, smiling up at him in a pool of blood, and screaming, so much screaming. He remembered half-dragging his dad's body out of there, into the fading daylight, and then collapsing, colors flickering past his eyes as the adrenaline drained from his body, leaving him with only blinding agony and a deafening ring in his ears. Then there were voices, and a sensation like being lifted, but he kept trying to grab at his dad's jacket. They pulled him away, and he struggled against them—but then he heard a woman's voice, a soft, shaking voice, murmuring something to him. There was a sharp pain in his arm, more murmuring, and everything faded away.

When he blinked back into the white room, he couldn't breathe, though he was gasping. His heart pounded its way up his throat, and he lurched off the bed, slamming into the padded wall on the other side of the room. He felt tubes rip out of his remaining arm as he backed himself into a corner and slid down the wall, covering his face with his hands and sucking in breaths that sounded like sobs. Then there was a soft hiss above, and the room began to flood with fog. But he raised his eyes in time to see the glass door on the other end of the room, which read, in big, bright letters, the number '194.' _His crime coefficient._ And then the room blurred out of existence.

* * *

The following days passed in a consistent cycle—he would wake in a panic, gasping as pain surged up and down his phantom arm. He'd relive it all over again, rip out the IV tubes, and the room would flood with fog. Again and again, he'd pass from unconsciousness to delirium to unconsciousness, from nightmare to waking nightmare. It was days before anyone spoke to him. When they did, they approached him calmly from the other side of the glass door, their faces peering over the brightly lit '197.' By that time, he'd managed to remain conscious and coherent just long enough for the doctors to deem him able to communicate rationally. They simply stared at him for a moment, three faces floating in a sea of white, and then the one in the middle opened his mouth, and nonsensical words and sounds issued from it. He caught snatches like "therapy" and "medication" and "confinement." Then he heard "recovery" and "statistics" and "personal history," and the doctors' faces never changed their expressions. He nodded at them, and, seeming pleased, they all drifted off down the hall from which they came.

Since he'd learned to calm himself down enough on his own, the doctors stopped by his room every day to check in on him and spout the same phrases over and over. He was told that he'd now been in the isolation ward for six days, and slowly he began to collect his thoughts through the haze of memories and morphine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Week Two**

As usual, as soon as Akane opened the door, Dime leapt up to greet her, nearly overbalancing her in the process. But when she turned around to shut the door, he sniffed and peered around her ankles to the hallway outside, then let out a long, pitiful whine. She reached down to scratch his ears, knowing it was little comfort. "You miss your master, huh?" she murmured, then let out a sigh. "I think I miss him too."

She glanced around Ginoza's apartment, taking everything into stock—even though she knew nothing had changed since yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. Though she had tried to water them regularly, the plants interspersed throughout the room were all slowly dying. She didn't understand how he had managed to look after each of them so well, as they seemed to her to require an extraordinary amount of nuance to be cared for properly.

She walked toward the kitchen, to where Dime's food bowl was kept, and he trailed after her, still sniffing around for his master—as though, if he searched hard enough, Ginoza would suddenly just appear again. Often, she found herself wishing the same thing. But Ginoza was gone, and she wasn't sure when he'd be back—if he'd ever be back. She stopped that train of thought before it took off, but she still couldn't shake the feeling of her own helplessness in the whole situation. Ginoza's face flashed before her eyes, dirty and bleeding, his eyes bloodshot and not quite sane—Masaoka's coat clutched desperately in the hand that hadn't been horribly mangled.

She had wanted so badly to help, to do something, but he was far past the point of reasoning by the time she got to him. She'd tried speaking to him softly, but she doubted he could hear anything she said. She'd only managed to calm him down enough to allow Kunizuka to give him a shot of a powerful tranquilizer, and then he'd mumbled a few words before he slumped into stillness.

Of all things, in that moment before he lost consciousness, he'd told her that someone would need to look after his dog. It had taken her a few seconds to even register what he had said, it was so absurd. She was sure he hardly knew what he was saying at that point, and yet that had been the thing at the forefront of his mind—who would be there to take care of his dog, if he was gone? For some reason, the thought made her throat tighten.

She poured out a generous bowl of food for Dime, which he slowly began to pick at, and then she wandered out into the living room. Everything was still perfectly ordered, of course, but a fine layer of dust was beginning to settle over the glassy surfaces of the tables and shelves. A weight of absence hung heavily in her chest and, not for the first time, she wondered if this had been inevitable.

"Psychological exhaustion" was what Sybil had told her. Ginoza had been exhausted. He had been working by her side almost constantly, and she hadn't even noticed. Looking back, it only became more and more apparent to her—the way he snapped sometimes, the constant warnings, the constant worrying. It was no wonder that he'd exhausted himself. And, yet again, she wondered if it all could have been prevented. If she had only noticed sooner. If she had only said something, done something. If she had only _cared_ enough.

It seemed callous, to think of it that way, but she knew that to some extent it was true. She had been too focused on other things—on the case, on Kogami, on Sybil—to even try to talk to him about it. However she attempted to reason it, though, she knew there was no excuse. She knew that, if he had been in her position, he would have talked to her, at the very least. After all, wasn't he always worrying after her psycho-pass? After everyone? What was her excuse, for not bothering to worry about him for a change?

She started to feel sick to her stomach, so she picked up the watering can and began circling around the room, trying to sustain the fragile life of each of Ginoza's precious plants. She watched each leaf tremble as she poured water over them, wondering if Masaoka's death had just been the final straw in a long series of private losses. She remembered the way he had warned her about Kogami, the way he had always held both Kogami and Masaoka at a distance—but still, he had never stopped worrying about them, never stopped caring completely, despite what he wanted them to believe. In fact, he had never run out of room in his mind for worrying about anybody.

She set the empty watering can back on the table, wondering how much a man like that could stand to lose before he finally lost himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Week Three**

 _Where was Kogami? And the others, whoever was left, where were they?_

His mind would run in circles in his tiny white room, but that question, he felt, was the most important. He was exhausted, and confused, and in pain, but most of all, he was alone. _Where were the others? Were they alright?_ He would damn them all for leaving him in the dark so long, to wait and wonder and expect the worst.

However, there was one thing of which he was certain—Kogami was alive. He had escaped. Despite the fact that he'd been left behind again (and god how it still hurt), he couldn't help but feel a little twinge of satisfaction. Ko had finally made it out—he was free. That had always suited him much better.

He thought about Akane just as often, maybe even more. He wondered how she was handling her position, now that he was gone. Would the pressure wear her down? His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a feeling that was all too familiar. He shouldn't have left her like that, to fend for herself. He should have been stronger, tried harder. How could he have just left her? He covered his face with his hand as his body convulsed once. Twice.

After everything, he hadn't been able to keep his psycho-pass clear. Just like his father. Just like Ko. He lowered his hand from his face, removing his glasses and gripping them tightly in his fist. Slowly, he built up the pressure until he heard the glass cracking, then watched calmly as a little stream of blood flowed down his forearm. The siren in his room went off, the lights all shifting to red, but he just gripped the glass shards harder as the fog settled around him, feeling the sting of the sharp edges cutting into his palm even as everything slipped away.

When he woke again, his hand was bandaged up. His vision blurred from the effects of the gas, but as his eyes adjusted, he found the three doctors standing outside his door, gazing at him in a calm, detached manner. "We've removed any and all hazardous materials from your room," they informed him. "From now on, you will be safe from yourself." He blinked at them, and they floated off down the hall. On his door, he found a new marking that read 'critical: self-harm,' and sighed. They probably wouldn't be giving him his glasses back, out of fear that he might use them to kill himself. He nearly laughed. It wasn't like he needed them anyway.

With that thought, he roused himself enough to get out of bed, then staggered slightly toward the glass door, his limbs feeling uncharacteristically heavy. Illuminated by the bright markings underneath, he stared at his face for the first time in weeks. It looked ghostly, nothing like he remembered. He gazed back at himself with a hollow expression, then focused on his eyes. The tired, lined face of his father flashed before him, and he jumped back before he caught himself. Then he leaned in closer, hoping to catch another glimpse. But nothing came.

Instead, he sunk down to the floor, sitting with his legs crossed in front of the glass. He had always thought that his father had abandoned him—that if he had tried hard enough, if he had really wanted to, he would have returned. He stared up at the big, bright '189' above him until his eyes burned. Now, if nothing else, he knew his father had cared, enough to give his life. But that dynamite had been meant for him, and he wished more than anything that he could have taken it instead. If he had been blown to bits, the pain would have been so much more brief.

 _What kind of a detective are you?_ His own voice echoed through the haze. He had never been his father, or Kogami, but he had worked so hard. It all seemed meaningless now—the anxiety, the insecurity, the sleepless nights—why had he even bothered? This had been his fate since the beginning, and he had only deluded himself up until now.

He thought of his first days as an Inspector, how he had been promoted to Division One even before Kogami—and then when Ko became his partner, how he'd always tried to look after him, even when it seemed like he made it difficult for him on purpose. He remembered the first time he fired a dominator, aimed to eliminate, and how the blood had splattered all over his Inspector's jacket. He remembered washing it off in the bathroom, bit by bit, and Ko coming in to check on him, asking if he was okay. Of course he was okay, he told him, even as his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He looked down at his own hand now, steady as a rock. He should have known, he should have known that he was following in his father's footsteps since the beginning. He should have known since the moment he'd decided to become an Inspector. But at the same time, he knew he couldn't have done anything else. He was always meant to be a detective, just as Kogami was meant to be free. It was their nature, and it was pointless to fight it any longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Week Four**

It had begun to feel normal, the routine of letting herself into Ginoza's apartment—feeding Dime, taking him outside, watering the dying plants around the room, and thinking about everything that had been lost. She wondered how Ginoza was doing, and where Kogami was. Those two things always seemed to be paired together in her mind.

Sometimes she'd sit in the living room amongst all of Ginoza's things and think for awhile. Dime would curl up on her lap, a warm weight that was both comforting and grounding. She began to understand why Ginoza kept a dog, of all things. It made perfect sense, even while it made her want to cry.

The doctors wouldn't allow her to visit Ginoza yet, saying he was still too "unstable." She hadn't been sure if they were referring to his physical or mental condition, but when she thought back to how he had looked when they found him—bloody, sobbing, clutching at his father's body—she had no doubt that his arm wasn't the only thing that needed medical attention. She tried to shake the image from her mind, but it stuck. Much had been lost that day, and though she didn't realize it at first, looking back, she knew that Ginoza had lost the most—his father, his best friend, his arm, his whole livelihood. She stroked her fingers through Dime's fur, trying to turn her thoughts elsewhere.

The office felt so empty these days. From time to time, she'd catch herself staring at the four vacated desks, imagining all of them back in their proper places—Kogami, Ginoza, Masaoka, and Kagari. Two dead, two gone—and maybe gone for good. She shook herself. Masaoka and Kagari were never coming back, and she'd accepted it. Kogami . . . well, she could never be certain. But Ginoza—he had to come back, didn't he? Being a detective was his life, and he was nothing if not devoted to his duty.

She stood, unsettling Dime in the process, and brushed off her skirt. Yes, he would come back, she decided, because she couldn't imagine him anywhere else—certainly not wasting away in an isolation ward, powerless to do anything. No, it just wasn't him. It wasn't right. She glanced down at Dime, who had leapt off the couch and was looking up at her with what seemed to be a hopeful expression, though maybe she imagined it. She reached down to pet his head, and he pushed up to meet her hand.

"Don't you worry," she whispered. "He's going to get better. I promise."

She gathered her purse, but as she started walking toward the door, Dime rubbed up against her legs a little too forcefully, and she stumbled into an end table. With a crack, a photo frame fell to the floor, and she bent to pick it up. A few glass shards tumbled out as she lifted it, and then the photo slipped out as well—a picture of another dog, most likely the one that had died before Ginoza got Dime. But as she turned the frame over, she found another photo hidden beneath. She brought it closer for inspection, and her hands began to tremble ever so slightly.

Pictured were much younger-looking versions of Ginoza and Kogami, both wearing blue Inspectors' jackets, their arms slung carelessly about each other's shoulders. Kogami was sporting a wicked-looking grin, and Ginoza was shooting him a sideways glance, an amused sort of half-smile twisting the corner of his mouth. Their faces were both relaxed, at ease with each other, and their eyes were shining.

With the feeling that she'd just glimpsed something intensely private, she set the frame down and backed away, covering her mouth with her hand. Unexpectedly, she felt her eyes begin to blur. It was undeniably them, and yet she felt that the two young men in that photo were completely different from the men she knew.

They were so young, and so close, and yet they had been torn apart by the job. Just shortly before she had joined Division One, a number had determined that Ginoza and Kogami could no longer be partners. Their paths had diverged. They grew cynical. Or realistic. Their eyes stopped shining like they did in the photograph. They didn't touch. Sometimes, it had seemed like Ginoza could hardly bear to look at Kogami. And now he was gone, and Ginoza was locked up—because a number had determined that he could no longer be an Inspector. The boys in the blue jackets seemed to fade away, to be replaced by something so much more grim.

She thought about Kogami, the manner in which he had left, and couldn't feel surprised anymore. In a way, she had known it was coming, just as Ginoza must have. But when she thought about Ginoza, she saw so many opportunities—if they had only talked, if she had said something, if he had just taken a break. But would any of it have really mattered, in the end? After all, he could be a stubborn bastard, just like Kogami, in his own way.

She swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. She had lost Kagari, and Masaoka, and even Kogami, but she had never expected to lose Ginoza. He was too dogged in his duty to just disappear. And now she felt cast adrift, like Division One had lost the thing that made it Division One. Apparently, that thing had been the constantly hovering, constantly commanding, constantly worrying figure of senior Inspector Ginoza. And now, more than ever, she was determined to get him back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Week Five**

When the doctors appeared at his door one morning and told him that he had a visitor, he couldn't believe them at first. Who could it be, when there was no one left to spare him a thought? His father was dead, and Kogami . . . well, he was long gone.

The doctors led him to another white room at the end of the hall, and when he sat down in front of the plate of glass, he found himself staring into the wide-eyed face of Akane Tsunemori. For a second, he was taken aback, but then he realized that he should have been expecting this. She looked nervous, fidgeting with the edges of her skirt under the table and glancing from his face to the floor and back again.

"How-how are you?" she finally asked, her voice shaky and foreign through the glass. He just stared at her, and she glanced away again. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid question." She gave him an apologetic look, and he just continued to stare, wondering when she'd get to the point. Then she took a deep breath, and he braced himself.

"I'm sure you've been wondering what happened since—," her eyes lingered over his bandaged shoulder, and silently he challenged her to say it, "—since you've been away. I'm sorry you were left in the dark for so long, but the doctors didn't want me telling you anything, since it might have worsened your condition . . ." She glanced sheepishly at his face, which had softened slightly. He honestly hadn't expected her to come here to debrief him, as if he was still a legitimate inspector.

"Makishima is dead," she said, and he felt neither surprise nor satisfaction at the news—his chest just felt hollow. No matter what had ultimately happened, whether Makishima had faced justice by the law or by retribution, it didn't change everything that had been lost in the process of bringing that monster down. "We found his body at the edge of the property," she continued. "He was shot through the head with an old-fashioned revolver."

"And Kogami?" he asked, unable to remain in ignorance any longer.

"Nowhere to be found," she said, and he felt a small pang of satisfaction then, though he knew he should be furious.

"Now would you like to tell me why you're really here . . . Inspector?"

Her eyes widened for a second, but then her face turned earnest. "I'd like to offer you a position on my team," she said. "If you're interested."

"Why would you want me?" he said, before he could stop himself.

She looked taken aback, and paused for a moment, obviously not having anticipated this question. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were shining oddly under the harsh light. "Because you were a great detective."

He puffed out a breath. _Bullshit._ "Really," he said. "And now look at me, huh?"

"I'm serious," she said, ignoring the way he rolled his eyes. "In your day, you closed more cases than anyone."

"So you've been researching me?"

"And you've got experience, loads of it. You always looked out for everyone on your team. You worried after all of us, all the time, and you wouldn't have done that if you didn't care. I want someone like that on my team. So that's why."

He blinked. That was not what he'd been expecting.

"I'll give you some time to think about it," she said, beginning to rise.

"No."

She froze.

"I don't need time to think about it," he said. "I'll join your team."

Her eyes widened in surprise, but then she smiled, her shoulders slumping in relief. "I'm glad to hear it. Now you'll be out of here in no time," she said, straightening her jacket to leave.

"Akane," he said, stopping her again as she reached for her purse. He leaned in closer to the glass and said, in a voice both quiet and urgent, "I have one favor to ask."

* * *

The next day, when the doctors opened the door to the visiting room, Dime was there waiting for him. He nearly sprinted into the room, then dropped to his knees on the floor as Dime bounded into his chest, whining and whimpering and licking all over his face. He wrapped his remaining arm around him and buried his face in Dime's fur, his fingers gripping him tight.

From the other side of the glass, Akane watched him with a smile. But then she noticed how his shoulders began to shake, and she respectfully looked away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Week Six**

To Akane's surprise, seeing Ginoza had sparked a new sense of conviction in her. He had looked different—no glasses, for one thing, but he had a completely different air about him as well. He looked paler, and smaller even, his shoulders folded inward toward his chest, and one arm entirely gone. She had known it was coming, but still, it gave her a shock. To be honest, his appearance had unsettled her, and she was looking forward to nothing so much as getting him out of there.

Having just ended her conversation on the phone, she stepped out of the car and started her walk to the entrance of the CID. They had finally agreed to give Ginoza a prosthetic arm—just like Masaoka—now that he would need it to perform as an Enforcer for the PSB. Now that he was _useful_ enough for it, she thought with a twinge of disgust. The doctors wanted to keep him in the isolation ward for two more weeks after the surgery in order to give him time to recover and adjust to operating the limb. She just hoped that in that time he would lose that empty look about him—that he would no longer look like so much _less_ than she remembered.

Even as she thought it, she felt ashamed of herself. But she needed a Ginoza that didn't look like he would crumble in a gust of wind, much more than she wanted to admit.

Pushing that thought aside for now, she strode through the doors of the CID, pausing at the entrance to the Analysis Lab. She stepped inside, though she had no real reason to do so. Shion spun around to greet her with a smile, a half-disintegrated cigarette between her fingers. "What can I do for you, Inspector?" she said, though she looked like she already knew. She made to put out her cigarette but Akane stopped her with a wave of her hand.

"No need," she said. "I like the smell." Shion raised a brow but didn't comment, continuing to smoke as though nothing had happened.

"So how's Gino?" Shion asked. "Still as uptight as ever, I hope."

"How did you—"

"Call it intuition," Shion said, smiling over her cigarette.

Akane fidgeted with the seam of her jacket, unable to conceal her concerns from Shion, as usual. "As well as can be expected. He's going into surgery today for his prosthetic arm."

"Just like old man Masaoka," Shion sighed. "If that's not a cruel twist of fate, I don't know what is." She took another drag of her cigarette. "Hey." Akane's head snapped up to meet her eyes, and Shion smiled a little sadly. "I've been working under Gino for years, and trust me, he'll be alright. He always comes around, with a little time."

"Yes," Akane said, looking distracted. "Alright." Then she attempted a weak smile.

"Atta girl," Shion said, and with a thank you, Akane turned to leave.

"Tell him to recover fast, will you?" Shion called over her shoulder. "We could really use that stick in the mud around here."


	7. Chapter 7

**Week Seven**

When he woke up, the first thing he felt was heavy. The second was cold. His left shoulder felt oddly tight, so he rubbed at it, and his fingers grazed metal. Instinctively, he flinched, before realizing that it was his own arm—or it was supposed to be, anyway. He was acutely aware of how the thing was now infused with the muscles and tendons of his shoulder, and he couldn't stop shivering—though he convinced himself that was merely a side effect of the anesthesia.

With effort, he lifted his new arm to the light, turning it over, examining the metal joints. It was heavy, and it was cold, and it was inhuman. He let it fall back down to the bed and covered his face with his real hand. It looked just like his dad's.

* * *

He was given two days of recovery time, and then they began physical therapy sessions to work on his strength and dexterity. After all, as an Enforcer, he would now have to operate as the muscle behind the team and operate on the front lines of the action. For that, he would need full use of his arm, which conveniently looked a hell of a lot more like a weapon than anything else. He thought it would suit his new job very well, even while it made things like sleeping more uncomfortable. For that reason, he'd quickly developed a habit of wrapping it in a blanket to keep the cool metal from touching his skin at night.

During therapy, first and foremost, he found the thing put him off-balance. It took effort to stand upright without leaning slightly to the left. Of course, it didn't help that he'd barely eaten anything since being admitted to the isolation ward, and he could feel his already weakened muscles straining against his new arm all along the left side of his back and chest. It made him frustrated with his own body, and he embraced that frustration. He channeled all of the dredges of his energy through it and began to feel a little bit more like himself again.

Beyond the daily physical therapy sessions, he would exercise in his room in any way he could—usually, this meant push-ups. If nothing else, it gave him a sense of purpose. Focused his attention. He had never understood why Ko had spent so much time on his physical training, but now he was beginning to—each thought became synched with every beat of his pulse, honed to the essentials, and every muscle movement became an orchestrated part of the whole system. For once, he felt in control.

Day by day, he got a little bit stronger. He could see what he was working toward a little more clearly. The haze in his mind began to evaporate, replaced by an almost startling determination. He would not sit in silence and wonder, or be consumed by grief or obsession—he was a detective, with people to protect and a team waiting for him on the other side. He would not lose sight of that, not for a moment. Though he now understood them better than he ever had, he was still not Kogami and he was still not his father.

Every time he pushed himself up off the floor, he convinced himself of this fact. And every time, he wouldn't break eye contact with the three-digit number on his door. He watched it without blinking, between every puff of breath, as it flickered between 152 and 138 before it finally, resolutely settled on 140.

 _Good enough_ , he thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**Week Eight**

The car ride was a quiet one. Akane glanced over at Ginoza from time to time, who was looking out the window as everything rushed by. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but she felt like he wouldn't appreciate being interrogated right now, so she let him be. He looked different yet again—still no glasses (she made a mental note to ask about that later), but he looked a lot more solid than when she'd visited him. He didn't look like he wanted to avoid her eyes anymore either, even though he wasn't looking at her now. There was a sort of quiet resolve about him, like he'd finally made up his mind about something important, but there was a sadness there too. All the more reason why Akane felt she shouldn't pry.

Dime thumped his tail rhythmically against the back seat, which hadn't stopped since Ginoza had gotten in the car. She'd brought him along to make picking up Ginoza from the isolation ward as comfortable as possible, since the situation had a significant probability of being extremely awkward. Dime had certainly eased the tension in Ginoza's posture when he'd come bounding up to him from behind Akane, and he'd bent down for a while to scratch his ears before they headed out. Fortunately, Ginoza had trained him and had him licensed as a therapy animal, otherwise he wouldn't have even been allowed in the building.

She gave Ginoza another side glance as he continued to stare out the window, his expression unreadable. He looked like he'd put himself back together quite nicely, but Akane knew better than to take that at face value now. After all, he'd looked put together before, but Sibyl had noticed something was wrong far before she had. She really had no way of knowing if he was falling to pieces just beneath the surface, but she was determined to pay more attention this time around. That was what partners did for each other, like he had always done for her—even when she thought his worrying had been unwarranted or unnecessary, he had never stopped.

She glanced over at him one more time to realize that he was staring at her. Taken slightly aback, she jumped.

"I don't want to trouble you," he said, graciously ignoring her surprise, "but I was wondering if we could make a brief stop."

* * *

A moment later, they stepped out of the corner shop together, Ginoza pulling a new brown leather glove over his metallic hand. He flexed his fingers into it, then gave her a small smile.

"Thank you," he said. "I really appreciate it."

"Not at all," she smiled, glad to see his face finally change from its stoic expression. "Shall we?"

* * *

When they opened the door to Ginoza's old apartment, dust particles, disturbed by the fresh airflow, floated through the dull light. Ginoza paused for a moment in the doorway, and Akane looked up at him. Again, his expression was unreadable, but she thought she saw a muscle in his jaw jump.

He took the first step into the room and she followed, switching on the light. "I'm sorry," she prefaced. "I tried to take care of your plants, but it seems I don't have much of a talent for it." She grimaced, looking around at all the slumped-over stems and fallen brown leaves, then glanced up at him to gauge his reaction.

He only smiled, still facing forward. "It's alright," he said. "It doesn't really matter anyway. Thank you."

"Y-you're welcome," she said, feeling horribly inadequate.

He stepped further into the room, Dime following close at his heels. It seemed like Dime didn't want to leave his side, and Akane wondered if he sensed something that she couldn't.

Just then, Ginoza stopped in front of an end table in the living room and went very still. Concerned, Akane moved forward, and found that he was holding a photo frame—the one she'd accidentally broken weeks earlier.

"I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "I knocked it over by mistake. I swept up the glass, but I forgot to replace it." Still no response. "I'm very sorry," she said again, worried at how silent he'd become. Then she noticed how he was staring at the photo, the one of him and Kogami in their brand new Inspectors' jackets, their arms around each other's shoulders.

When he realized she was staring at him, he turned to face her. "It's fine." He smiled again, though it didn't convince her at all.

"Are you sure?" she pressed.

"I'll probably just throw it away anyway," he said, gripping it tightly in his hand.

She could only nod, starting to gather up the moving boxes.

* * *

Akane wondered if this reminded him of doing the same thing with Kogami, walking down the hallway of the CID, each of them carrying a big moving box—only this time, he was in Kogami's position, and she was in his. She made a point of not mentioning it.

Before they reached the door to Masaoka's old quarters, Akane turned to him. "We haven't moved anything," she said. "We thought you might want to . . ." she trailed off.

"Yes, thank you," he said, glancing at the door with an expression that looked both grateful and pained. "I'll take care of everything."

"I'm sorry that you couldn't attend the funeral," she said.

"That's alright. I really didn't expect any different."

And with that, they stepped through the doorway of Ginoza's new quarters, setting down their boxes in the entryway. Ginoza straightened up and looked around, and Akane watched him again.

She honestly wasn't sure how he would handle moving into Masaoka's old quarters with all of his belongings left untouched, but she thought he should have some part in laying him to rest. After all, it probably would have been worse if someone else had gone through all of Masaoka's old things and tossed them without any of Ginoza's input. She was confident that this was the best decision, even though it would undoubtedly cause Ginoza some pain. Perhaps it would even help him to grieve, or so she hoped.

"Well," she said brightly. "Would you like some help unpacking?"

Ginoza turned to her slowly, almost like he'd forgotten she was there. "No, thank you," he smiled gently. "I can unpack by myself. I'm sorry for all the trouble this has caused you."

"Honestly, Mr. Ginoza, it's no trouble at all. Please," she said, offering him her hand.

He hesitated, then reached out and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you again," he said, then let a wry smile twist his mouth, "Inspector Tsunemori."

"You're very welcome, Enforcer Ginoza," she replied, smiling back. "Now unpack and get some rest. We're sure to have a long day tomorrow." She paused at the door, suddenly looking uncertain. "Would you like to visit Mr. Masaoka in the morning?"

"That would be . . . much appreciated. Thank you, Inspector."

She gave him a nod, heading for the door again.

"Tsunemori—"

He stopped her, and she turned to face him. He looked very much like he wanted to tell her something, as though he'd been waiting to say it this whole time.

"I'm sorry," he said, his prosthetic hand clenching and unclenching slowly. "I know what it's like to lose a partner. How the work piles up. How . . ." He stopped himself. "I'll make up for it in any way that I can. You won't be on your own. I promise."

"Mr. Ginoza," she said, and there were a thousand things she wanted to say, "I know I can count on you. And that's all that matters. _I_ promise."

He just stared at her, looking lost for words. "Goodnight, Tsunemori," he finally said, his voice quiet.

"Goodnight, Ginoza."


End file.
